


Failed Diplomacy

by houseofthestars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, M/M, Post A+ Support, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), flaky pheasant pastry parcels, the working title of this was 'fancy ball murder escape'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofthestars/pseuds/houseofthestars
Summary: Edelgard had insisted that sending two of her closest advisors to the winter ball of a long term Adrestian ally was necessary for the maintenance of still-fragile bonds. Faerghus, with its notoriously uninspired cooking, short winter days and sub-zero temperatures. They did like a good party though, or so Ferdinand had heard.As for the company Ferdinand would have chosen, that’s a more complicated matter. While in Enbarr he would be surrounded by old and new friends and their easy company, here he has Hubert and… whatever this is.Everything should go perfectly well, surely?
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 48
Kudos: 368





	Failed Diplomacy

Rowe County is colder than the back end of hell during Ethereal Moon. This is neither Ferdinand’s nor Hubert’s first time to Faerghus during the winter, but rarely have they ventured this far north since the end of the war. Whatever Ferdinand thought he was prepared for, time has dulled it long enough that the first gust of wintry wind that rushes into his face has him biting back a horrified shriek. He almost retreats back into the carriage he is stepping out of, but Hubert’s face as he holds the door open convinces him otherwise.

“How could anyone possibly live in these conditions?” Ferdinand splutters, pulling his fur-lined cloak closer around him and pulling up the hood. “Not only is it atrociously cold, I’ve only seen about four hours of daylight. It’s enough to break any man’s spirit, yet people reside here by choice.”

“Best to vent your spleen now before we enter Rowe Keep, I suppose,” Hubert says, closing the door behind Ferdinand and rapping its side so the driver pulls away. “A little more diplomacy would be appreciated for the rest of the evening.” 

Ferdinand makes a fur-rimmed face at him. “As I would not lecture you on your myriad duties, do not think to lecture me on diplomacy, Hubert. I have been trained in the art of such since I first formed words. It’s just... It’s damned cold is all. Give me some time to get used to it.”

“Seems to me that those who would choose to live here might have a strength of character you do not possess,” Hubert says, only a faint twitch of his eyebrows revealing the jest. 

Ferdinand’s gotten better these days at reading these faint little cues. It is the result of a great deal of study over the last few years. Ferdinand now knows that Hubert takes much of his conversation - save that which relates to his duties - a lot less seriously than everything in his demeanour might suggest. Had this knowledge been shared earlier it might have saved them both rather a lot of trouble over the years, but Hubert seems to have enjoyed making him work for it. Ferdinand supposes it has been time well spent, getting to know the true meaning of the movement of an eyebrow, the quirk of his mouth, the occasional tilt of his head. It feels like a rare treasure, honestly won. 

So Ferdinand just rolls his eyes and says “Perhaps strength of character, or maybe just pure stubbornness. The latter of which  _ you _ have in spades, so it is hardly particular to the north. Surely it is better to be stubborn somewhere warmer. Anyway, let’s get moving before my feet go numb.”

“Just a short walk from here up to the keep, I believe.” Despite his teasing, Ferdinand sees Hubert’s own shoulders hunch and tense under his own cloak at the next gust.

Had Ferdinand been asked his personal preferences for celebrating the Winter festival this year he would certainly not have chosen such a destination. The balls in Enbarr were always spectacular this time of year, the one at the Imperial palace the jewel in the crown. The Hresvelg ballroom would be bedecked in sumptuous garlands, the air would smell of good food and cinnamon sticks. The finest chamber ensemble in Enbarr would be playing Ethereal favourites while nobles in their loveliest evening wear spin together like a perfectly designed zoetrope. Best of all they would have those scrumptious little flaky pastry parcels with shredded pheasant in. Those were his favourite.

Instead, he was in Faerghus, because repairing relations across the north of the newly unified Fódlan was a long and arduous slog, and Edelgard had insisted that sending two of her closest advisors to the winter ball of a long term Adrestian ally was necessary for the maintenance of still-fragile bonds. Faerghus, with its notoriously uninspired cooking, short winter days and sub-zero temperatures. They did like a good party though, or so Ferdinand had heard.

As for the company Ferdinand would have chosen, that’s a more complicated matter. While in Enbarr he would be surrounded by old and new friends and their easy company, here he has Hubert and… whatever this is. Something new, recently revealed, that the pair of them have not quite felt the shape of yet. But it is there in exchanged gifts, overly long lunches, a glance of amusement shared over a cabinet meeting. The occasional evening walk, with one arm hooked around another self consciously. 

But this is a professional occasion, and as Ferdinand said before, he is no stranger to diplomacy. 

“I have not yet met this Count Rowe, though I hear he offered a great deal of service to the Empire during the war,” Ferdinand says as they crunch through the snow up the short pathway to the castle keep. “Have you made his acquaintance?”

“Not directly,” says Hubert, which doesn’t usually mean that he is unfamiliar with someone. Just that he hasn’t gotten that information face to face. “He is a wretchedly pious man, as all close to the Western Church are, but was all too happy to see Garreg Mach fall. He’s probably going to take the fall of the Western Church a little harder, but that’s a matter for another day. His wife is preoccupied with regulating the hunting on their territory, so expect that to come up. His oldest daughter married into the Dominics a few years back, the second is as yet unwed.”

“Ah yes, I think I saw some letter or other from the Countess prior to our invitation, but I appreciate the reminder.”

They wait for the gate to rise still holding their cloaks shut tight, though a particularly nasty gust knocks Ferdinand’s hood backwards again and streaks his hair with snow. Hubert seems to be retreating further and further into his cloak with every passing moment until there’s a call of greeting and the gate starts to rumble upwards. With only a faint grimace Hubert straightens himself.  _ He’s like a puffed up crow flattening its feathers,  _ Ferdinand thinks, and can’t help but grin when Hubert catches him watching and frowns.

Ferdinand stamps his feet to try to get some feeling back in them, and ducks under the gate as soon as it’s high enough. Hubert makes a noise of derision from the other side.

“Can’t keep them waiting, minister,” Ferdinand says, teeth chattering. “Chop chop.”

And then, finally, there’s a large wooden door shifting open before them, and Ferdinand’s sigh of relief is audible as a rush of warm air welcomes them to the home of House Rowe. Hubert helps Ferdinand with his cloak before removing his own, and a servant collects them, bowing deeply. They are then ushered to a reception room, where Count Rowe stands as they enter.

“Duke Aegir. Count Vestra,” he says, bowing. “It is an honour to welcome you to Rowe Keep on such a wonderful occasion.”

“We are honoured to be here, and bring the warmest wishes of the Emperor along with us for the Winter Festival,” says Hubert, only a little stiffly. Free of his cloak he cuts a rather dashing figure in his dark evening wear despite the wind outside, all sharp lines and silver buttons. Of course, Ferdinand would freely admit to scrubbing up rather well himself. It certainly would not do to embarrass the office of the Prime Minister with unsatisfactory attire. As the introductions continue, Ferdinand can feel the snow melting in his hair and the sensation returning slowly to his toes with a faint tingle. Combined with the faint sound of music drifting in from deeper in the keep and the smell of food, he can feel his mood lightening. 

While not quite the Imperial Palace, or even Garreg Mach in its heyday, when they are ushered into the ballroom there is a lively group of musicians, a roaring fireplace and a whirl of Faerghan nobility, all in bright silks as if in defiance of the darkness outside. Small candles fill nooks in the walls with flickering light along with the glow of the roaring fireplace. It smells of wood smoke and citrus and good cheer. 

“How delightful!” Ferdinand exclaims, and Count Rowe grins and slaps then both heartily on the back. Hubert only half suppresses a choking sound on impact, one that Ferdinand only usually hears from him when he mounts a horse. 

“Now that the formalities are out of the way, perhaps we can show you how to have a good time the Faerghan way, eh?”

Having a good time the Faerghan way, it would seem, involves a herbal schnapps that makes Ferdinand’s eyes water, though Hubert knocks a shot of it back with surprising mettle. It also involves being introduced to more minor nobility than Ferdinand can count. The schnapps also doesn’t help on that account. And most of all, it involves being spun around the floor to lively waltzes. It’s like everything the Faerghans do is to keep the chill away, keep the blood warm. All in all, he supposes this whole thing could be worse. 

As Ferdinand makes his way around the room, though, his eyes cannot help but wander back to Hubert every so often, as easy to spot as an ink stain on an oil painting. Ferdinand can’t quite record the time at which Hubert declined any more schnapps, excused himself from a conversation about Faerghan flower arrangements and then drifted to the edge of the room to station himself against a pillar, but he appears to have moved little since.

Feeling something like guilt twinge in his chest, Ferdinand bids leave from Lady… Someone, he will find that name out again later, and makes a beeline for Hubert, taking a canapé from a tray for his journey. It turns out to be a pastry parcel which, while not in the same league as his favourites, is certainly passable. He collects a second from another passing tray and can’t help but make a noise as he bites into it. 

“Dignified,” Hubert says flatly, straightening as Ferdinand approaches, and Ferdinand makes a face at him as a temporary reply, chewing rapidly.

“It is only polite to show proper appreciation of the work done by the cooking staff,” he says defensively, once his mouth is no longer full.

“I am quite sure they heard that noise all the way back in the kitchens, so consider it a job well done." Hubert is still leaning against the pillar, cradling a glass of champagne in one gloved hand that Ferdinand is fairly sure he hasn’t taken a single sip of. 

“Hubert, I’m sure you have better things to do tonight than to critique my consumption of hors d'oeuvres,” says Ferdinand. “We are at a party, and a rather fun one at that. Are you not enjoying yourself?”

“If the choice is between ‘enjoy’ and ‘hate’,” says Hubert, “I would choose the former, I suppose.”

“Ugh, if you’re going to be like that, then you can go away,” says Ferdinand.

“If I were to leave, who would be here to make sure you are not an utter embarrassment to the Imperial Crown?” says Hubert, reaching out and brushing at the lapel of Ferdinand’s jacket. Which certainly does not have crumbs on it, Ferdinand might add. He might enjoy a flaky pastry parcel but he is still a nobleman. He bats at Hubert’s hand and then catches it in his own; he’s about to run his thumb over the knuckles of Hubert’s glove when he feels the other man tense. Ferdinand lets go, but can’t stop his face flushing.

“Apologies, I had. Um. Forgotten our surroundings.”

“Nothing to apologise for,” Hubert says, awkwardly. “If anything, I should—”

“Oh, no, certainly not.”

“Perhaps later we might—”

“Yes. I mean, if you’d like.”

“I would.”

There's an embarrassed pause, but then Hubert quirks a sheepish half-smile at Ferdinand, and relieved, Ferdinand smiles back.

“Surprised you are not still busy being swung around the ballroom by every noble in here,” says Hubert abruptly. “Tired feet?”

“A little,” Ferdinand admits, picking up the thread. “The waltzes here do seem to keep the tempo rather high, I somewhat feel as if I have been flung about like Caspar with a warhammer. What about you?”

“Never been much of a dancer,” Hubert says. “As you well know. I prefer the opportunity to observe.”

“Ah. I should have pegged you for a people watcher.”

“I suppose you could call it that. Of a specific sort. For instance,” Hubert says, gesturing toward the bar, where Countess Rowe is speaking to a man with a rather red face. “Here we see the Countess speaking with a second son of the Mateus family who I am aware has connections to local militia. It appears she is intending to pursue the defence of her hunting territory a little more aggressively in the near future. And over there, in the corner - I believe that is a lady of House Ochs, with a man who appears to be a good twenty years younger than my intelligence would have suggested her husband is. Though perhaps my report smudged the ink on the number.”

“Ah. Did Edelgard just send us to this ball so you could spy on people?”

Hubert's brows briefly knit at the mention of Edelgard, though he smooths it over quickly. “No,” he says, looking back out over the crowd. “Lady Edelgard saw fit to send us both away from the Palace, at a time of critical strategic importance, because strengthening of relationships is vital at this delicate stage of Fódlan’s unification. And we are the only two fit in the world to do it,  _ apparently _ . But if I must be here then I'll make use of…. ” 

And then Hubert’s voice trails off.

“Hubert? Everything alright?”

Hubert makes a  _ hm _ noise, but doesn’t relax, his eyes now scanning the whole room with what seems like a renewed purpose. 

“Hubert?”

Another moment, and then Hubert comes back to himself. And then to Ferdinand’s surprise, he sets his champagne glass on a nearby ledge and holds a hand out to Ferdinand.

“Perhaps you are right, and I should make more of the occasion. Would your tired feet spare you one more dance?”

Ferdinand plays back the last sentence he heard, and it does indeed still seem to be Hubert inviting him to dance.

“With you?”

“Yes, with me. You would refuse? At a winter ball, of all occasions?”

“Of course not, but you just...” 

Hubert cocks his head and wiggles the fingers on his outstretched hand, a far cry from the awkward man of five minutes ago. “I changed my mind.”

Ferdinand feels his face heat a little again, but takes Hubert’s hand before doubt can dissuade him, and with his palm caught in Hubert’s own he is led to the dancefloor.

“If you would care to lead,” Hubert says, as the chamber ensemble begins a thankfully gentler waltz, one familiar from Ferdinand’s childhood. He nods, offering his shoulder and letting his own hand move around Hubert’s back, feeling the soft slide of Hubert’s jacket under his fingers. He can’t quite place the material, perhaps something from Brigid. Hubert rests one hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder and hooks the other into Ferdinand’s own, warm and slender, and their eyes meet. Despite Ferdinand’s improved understanding, he isn’t quite able to read whatever he can see in Hubert’s eyes just now. Which makes him nervous.

They set off, and Hubert is... indeed, not much of a dancer. A generous review would be that neither of them have been tripped up by his feet yet. And yet, Ferdinand finds himself focusing not on the awkward footwork but on the stretch of material beneath his palm, the warmth between their hands. Hubert is… closer than he had anticipated. Ferdinand can hear the gentle puff of his breathing alongside the music, the scrape of their feet moving together across the floor. 

And there’s a little jump of tension as Hubert leans toward him as they move, bringing his mouth close to Ferdinand’s ear.

“I am about to tell you something,” he murmurs, “that will be surprising. But I need you to keep your expression from revealing this. Are you prepared?”

“Oh,” says Ferdinand, and his heartbeat is suddenly clattering in his chest. “Yes?”

“I believe we are in danger.”

“Excuse me?”

“What did I just  _ say _ ,” he hisses. “Keep dancing. I spotted something amiss during the last change of guards directly in your line of sight. I wished to bring you here for a certain amount of cover, but we shouldn’t remain much longer.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Our carriage is waiting for us back where we left it, but it would be unwise to consider it uncompromised. We will need to remove ourselves from this situation and seek an alternative mode of transport.”

Ferdinand’s hand tightens a little bit on Hubert’s own, but he tries to keep his voice level and his expression light as he says “I am armed, though it is only a rapier. Have you any tomes?”

“I can manage with what I have available,” Hubert says, without elaborating.

“Understood.” Ferdinand wheels the two of them around, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the rest of the room. What had seemed a lively, joyful crowd just a few moments ago now suddenly seems… a little chaotic, perhaps. A little aggressive. And there are two men near the closest exit who seem awfully burly for members of the nobility. Ferdinand suddenly wishes he hadn’t had quite as much schnapps.

“Seems one exit is blocked off,” he says. “Though it is only two brutes. We might yet break through.”

“People are drunk. Let’s not escalate.”

“In that case we may have to make our way through the servants’ passageways. Is anyone approaching us?”

“Not yet, but we must be quick.”

“Allow me,” Ferdinand says, and carefully, still in waltz step, pulls the two of them through the whirling dancers. The passageway where servants have been bringing out trays of drinks and food is further away than he anticipated, but they can get themselves most of the way there across the dancefloor. As they turn, Ferdinand spots a young man in a fitted woolen jacket with a fur trim at the neck start to weave through the standing spectators, his expression a little too serious for the occasion.

“Someone is following us now,” Hubert says. 

“I see him. The dance is about to end; let us applaud it and then move towards the passageway.”

The waltz duly finishes, and the couples on the dancefloor part to clap, smiling at one another and at the musicians. With a perfunctory set of applause both Hubert and Ferdinand make for the back of the room but before Ferdinand can take more than a few steps a hand catches at his sleeve. It's the Lady von Ochs that Hubert had pointed out earlier. 

“Duke Aegir. I don't believe we have been. introduced yet, but so wonderful to see Adrestia's pride all the way out here in Faerghus. Might I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

“Apologies, my Lady,” Ferdinand says breathlessly, “Count Vestra and I were just about to take some air. But perhaps in a short while—”

“But you have only just arrived, my Lords! Come now, the night is young.”

“If you would permit us but a moment, my Lady, I promise the next dance will be yours, on my word as a noble,” says Ferdinand, and grasps her hand in his own to kiss the back of it, maintaining eye contact. Lady von Ochs blushes delicately. 

“Well, Duke Aegir, I shall hold you to it,” she says, indulgently, and Ferdinand flashes a smile before he feels Hubert’s hand land on his shoulder and tighten warningly.

“Now if you’ll excuse us,” Ferdinand says quickly, and lets go of Lady von Ochs' hand so that Hubert can pull him away.

“Is that what you say to all the girls, then?” mutters Hubert as they push their way through the crowd. “Keep an eye on your ten o’clock.”

“Are you accusing me of flattery? I promised her the next dance and if I were intending to dance again tonight I would keep my word.” Ferdinand glances over his right shoulder. The man with the fur collar is still approaching. “Yes, I see him.” 

They are finally at the servants’ corridor and as one servant leaves with another tray of schnapps Hubert and Ferdinand enter, their pace picking up as the door swings shut behind them. The passageway is dimmer than the ballroom, with a few darkened rooms along its length and the clattering sounds of the kitchen filtering up some nearby stairs.

“We should draw them out,” Ferdinand says. “If we can place ourselves somewhere where we can get the drop—”

“We don’t know their numbers,” Hubert says, shaking his head. “And we don’t know the layout of the keep, so they have the advantage. All we have is time, and not a lot of it. Quickly now, through the kitchens.” 

They make for the stairs but as they do the door swings open, and a man in a black jerkin starts to make his way upwards. Ferdinand hooks a hand around Hubert’s arm and pulls him back, then through the nearest doorway. As they stumble inside Hubert jams a gloved hand in the crack of the closing door to stop it clattering shut, only biting back a slight wince when it bounces off his knuckles. When Ferdinand moves to extricate himself from their tangle, the back of his head finds the edge a shelf; he screws his face up tight until the immediate pain fades, thankfully without noise escaping his mouth. It would appear they are in a pantry.

They freeze as they hear the sound of the door to the ballroom opening again. What space is not shelves and jars is limbs jammed together, one of Hubert’s elbows digging into Ferdinand’s stomach, feet treading on feet. It’s certainly intimate, if one were to note such things. Ferdinand hadn't anticipated his first experience with such intimacy with Hubert to involve so many… knees.

“You sure they came this way?” says one low voice beyond the pantry door. 

“Certain of it, she told me so. You just come from the kitchens?”

“Yeah…” and then both voices fall ominously quiet. Hubert nudges him with a toe, pointing at himself and then the door. Ferdinand nods, reaching as best he can to rest his hand on the hilt of his rapier in the cramped space. Hubert then slides one finger under the edge of the glove on his opposite hand and with a whisper readies it towards the entrance of the pantry. 

When the door swings open it's a sheer test of speed, and Hubert just has the advantage as he sends a miasma spell flying straight into their pursuer’s face, sending them staggering backwards with a rasping cough. With this Hubert forces his way out of their tangle inside the pantry and send a second gust of noxious fumes that knocks the man with the fur collar unconscious. Ferdinand can finally draw his rapier, and rather than lunge with the blade he swings to knock the second assailant on the head with the pommel with brute force. The thug staggers with a cry but swings blindly with a nasty-looking dagger; Hubert steps forward to block and then grips the man’s arm in both hands, twisting brutally enough that Ferdinand can hear an unpleasant  _ crack _ . The man shrieks, his fingers going slack so that the dagger clatters to the floor, his head still bleeding from the strike of the pommel. Ferdinand kicks the dagger away and levels his rapier at the man’s neck.

“Sloppy and laughable. Who  _ sent _ you?” Hubert hisses, his hands still gripping the man’s arm; when he doesn’t reply, his grip tightens and there’s another cry of anguish from their assailant. 

“Tell me who sent you and maybe only  _ part _ of the rest of your miserable life will be in agony—”

Ferdinand glances apprehensively towards the stairwell. “Hubert, I don’t think we have time,” he says, and Hubert’s head snaps up just as a servant bustles in from the ballroom, takes one look at the scene and immediately starts screaming, running back out to the ballroom.

Hubert makes a noise of frustrated disgust and spells more miasma directly into their captive’s face, knocking him out, while Ferdinand kicks him backwards to the floor with a boot to the chest.

“Kitchen,” he says, and Hubert nods, and they run, Hubert ducking to sweep the dagger up as they go.

Steam hits their faces as they push through the kitchen door, with flames rising from a huge cooking range as cooks stir pots and fry meat. The whole room is a hive of activity; all Ferdinand can do is shoulder his way through the baffled staff, Hubert following quickly behind him. They duck under a woman brandishing a frying pan, do an odd sort of pirouette with a man carrying a pheasant. Ferdinand looks regretfully at a fresh tray of flaky pastry parcels before he pushes his way past a pile of crockery and through the back door.

They’re into another corridor - must be the servants’ quarters - but through a nearby window Ferdinand spots a welcome sight. “Over there, the stables,” he says. “We can commandeer horses, make our way back to town.”

“Try there,” Hubert says, pointing further down the corridor where a large set of double wooden doors stand.

“Oh, but we had the chance to swing by the cloakroom on our escape,” Ferdinand says regretfully, but forges ahead regardless, drawing his rapier. It is unsure whether it is fortunate or not, then, when as they approach the door it swings open from outside, and the two burly men that had blocking the ballroom exit bear down upon them. Snow swirls in from outside around them as they brandish short swords.

Hubert and Ferdinand move forward together and though their waltz may not have been graceful, the way they move to strike is poetry in motion. Ferdinand blocks the swing of one man’s short sword, then another swing, trying to force his arm up and away. The man snarls, pushing back, and there’s the sound of grinding metal against metal as they both try to gain the upper hand. But Ferdinand’s training has kicked in now and he knows the way to turn the man’s bulk against him. He shoves, forcing the thug to stagger backwards, and while he recovers enough to swing again, Ferdinand is already surging forward once more to knock him off balance. 

In that moment Hubert curves around Ferdinand to rake his new dagger shallowly along the length of the man’s arm. He cries out; though his grip on his short sword only loosens for a moment, it’s enough for Ferdinand to knock it out of his hand with his rapier and follow up with another blow of the pommel, knocking him to the ground. Meanwhile, Hubert throws another miasma spell at the other rogue, and then yet another. While the man reels, wheezing and coughing, Ferdinand runs his blade through the man’s shoulder so that he drops his weapon with another strangled yell. One last shove sends him to the floor, grasping at his wound.

Ferdinand and Hubert stand there for a moment, their chests heaving.

“You are unhurt?” Hubert says to Ferdinand, if a little breathlessly.

“Yes, I believe so. And you?”

“Yes,” he says curtly, and turns with his dagger still in his hand towards the men prone on the floor. One is unconscious but the other, the one that Ferdinand’s rapier had struck in the shoulder, watches Hubert approach with wide eyes, boots suddenly scrabbling for purchase on the floor.

“ _ You will tell me who sent you _ ,” says Hubert, and it’s not a request. Ferdinand cannot look away as Hubert bears down on the man. No awkward conversation and clutched champagne glass, just dark fury and a blade in his hand. Somehow, Ferdinand thinks to himself, Hubert’s suit looks even more dashing now than it had in the ballroom. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” the man babbles at Hubert, still clutching his shoulder. 

“Pathetic. You’re lying,” says Hubert, and swoops down to bring the dagger tight against the man’s neck.

“I’m not, I promise,” the man rasps, straining himself away from the point of the dagger. “She, she hid what she looked like, but she sounded Adrestian, older, paid up front...”

“Adrestian?” Hubert pauses, and Ferdinand suddenly realises what he’s thinking.

“The von Ochs woman,” Ferdinand says, and Hubert nods grimly.

“That was no mere toyboy. I should have known. She must have deeper roots in Faerghus than I had anticipated.”

“We can’t go back,” Ferdinand says. “I dare say after that servant ran off screaming, we are being searched for as we speak. We should continue to the stables.”

Hubert still looks furious and his grip tightens on the dagger but he pulls away, beckoning to Ferdinand instead. Ferdinand steps forward once Hubert is clear and slugs the man in the face. He’s out cold after that.

“I should have  _ known _ ,” Hubert says again, more vehemently this time.

“We outmatched and outclassed these rogues in but a moment, Hubert. Why, we have faced greater foes on a field trip with the Professor. If they continue to pose a threat I have no doubt we will find and defeat them and barely break a sweat. What was it you said?  _ Sloppy and laughable, _ I believe.”

Hubert doesn’t reply. Ferdinand shifts, trying to fill the silence with something that he will listen to.

“Hubert, you will know the measure of them soon enough, I am sure of it. The moment they revealed themselves to you was the moment they sealed their own fate. But for now we shouldn’t tarry, there may be more approaching.” 

Hubert makes a  _ psh _ sound, but nods. Ferdinand’s eyes fall back to the unconscious figures.

“Ah, but there is one piece of good luck in this tussle. Those cloaks look rather cosy, do they not?"

The cloaks are certainly needed as they head for the stables in the dark, snow whipping angrily across the courtyard of the keep and piling in drifts against the walls. It’s getting hard to see much of anything at all, but the stables are not too far, and there’s a lamp hanging by the entrance that Ferdinand snatches up.

It’s warmer once they get inside, if a little cramped. The stables are a stone barn with narrow quarters along the length of each wall, with racks of saddles at the far end. Ferdinand passes the torch over a few of the nearest ones, trying to get a sense of them quickly as he can - no point trying to flee through snow on horses that won’t make it back. It seems to be a mix of Rowe’s horses and those belonging to guests - a couple of traditional Blaiddyds are closest, small but hardy with that unique gait of theirs, and they flick their ears placidly at Ferdinand. Ferdinand's eyes finally alight on a pair of Tailteans further along, a bay and a dun each wearing a rug with a coat of arms embroidered into it. 

“These should suffice in a pinch,” Ferdinand says. “If you can pass me tack I can have them ready soon enough.”

“I know how to saddle up a horse,” Hubert says.

“No, you know how to saddle up Jacobine, who has learned to tolerate your quirks,” retorts Ferdinand. “We don’t have the time to be choosy.”

"I wasn't aware I had  _ quirks _ , or that any horse was tolerating them," Hubert says.

“Hubert, the most relaxed I have seen you all night was when someone was trying to stab you. You are hardly without quirks.”

Hubert’s silence speaks volumes, but he does go to collect the tack.

It’s been quiet while Ferdinand works, but their luck runs out as he tests the tightness of the second saddle’s girth Hubert’s head jerks upwards from where he’s been watching Ferdinand.

“We're out of time,” he says. “We need to move.”

“Almost ready,” Ferdinand says, and tightens the girth one more notch on each of the buckles before gesturing between Hubert and the horse. For a moment he feels oddly like he’s introducing one to the other, like the nobles at the ball. Hubert makes to jump up and without thinking Ferdinand braces his arm against the back of Hubert’s leg as he swings over, helping with the momentum. 

When Hubert is settled he gives Ferdinand a look. Ferdinand shrugs.

“It is not that I found this time with you unpleasant,” Hubert says suddenly. “I merely find myself… without my usual points of reference. Away from Lady Edelgard’s side at a critical moment. And unused to many things, in this situation.” At that last sentence, his hand twitches where it grasps the reins.

Ferdinand thinks of the awkward figure Hubert cut against the pillar, and some understanding settles into him, like the snow melting in his hair. “Of course. This too was not a situation I anticipated, though perhaps for different reasons.” He pauses, and then adds, “But if I must be here in Faerghus, in winter, being pursued by ruffians, I am at least grateful it is with good company.”

"Yes. Well. We are in agreement, then, but let us postpone the saccharine sentimentality for when we're not in immediate danger," Hubert suggests, shifting awkwardly in the saddle. 

Ferdinand reaches again for Hubert’s hand, who doesn’t tense this time when Ferdinand finally runs his thumb over the knuckles of his glove. One last squeeze, and then it’s Ferdinand’s turn to mount, and he leaps up with a practiced movement.

There are more people approaching the stables than Ferdinand had expected, a gaggle of indignant-looking nobles and guards from the keep; it seems this has gotten a little out of hand. Particularly as Count Rowe appears to be among them. There is no time to attempt to explain, but as it is having two horses burst out of the stables at high speed is enough to scatter a number of them, clearing a path down towards the gate. 

“Get out of the way or we will cut you down,” Ferdinand shouts, because the time for diplomacy is long over, and he draws the rapier. At this speed it is more of a bludgeon than anything else but hopefully no one will come near enough to notice the difference. The sound of another set of hooves against the cobbles assures Ferdinand that Hubert is keeping pace close behind.

“Close the gate!” comes a cry from the walls of the keep, and Ferdinand squeezes his heels, urging the horse faster, its breath coming in puffs and snorts that condense in the cold air. The wind picks up against and whips fresh snow from into Ferdinand’s face, but there’s only a short distance to the gate; if they can make it past and back on their way to town he doubts Count Rowe will chase them further. 

A sharp corner and they stumble a little around the turn, but recover marvellously, picking back up where they left off with nary a complaint; just as well, as a warning arrow has just zipped over their heads. All they can do is keep going, so when another pair of guards attempt to block their path Ferdinand tightens his grip on his rapier, ready to swing. The guards waver at the sight of the charging horses but they hold their ground until a spell from Hubert sends them staggering back. Another warning arrow flies past; the gate is close, but someone is calling to the men above it and the clattering of its downward mechanism begins.

Ferdinand can only keep up the pace, keeping one ear out for Hubert’s horse behind him. Tailteans are quick on their feet, but the ground is hardly perfect going. The gate drops further, and for a moment Ferdinand heart stutters in his chest as he realises they are not quite fast enough. But then there is a rush of wind behind them that surges them forward in a fashion that Ferdinand cannot quite comprehend until he realises it is a cutting gale spell, bitter cold and forceful.

And with the pair of them leaning forward in their saddles, they duck under the gate, the horses’ feet sure and steady beneath them, beating a path past parked coaches and following the tracks of their wheels back towards the local town. A few more arrows fly past to stick upright into the snow, put no one pursues, as Ferdinand suspected.

He cries out in triumph, finally daring to look behind him; Hubert is grimly holding onto his reins, looking thoroughly wretched but steady in his saddle.

“How on earth did you pull that one out of the bag?” Ferdinand shouts to him, and Hubert just shakes his head and keeps riding.

\--

“So, as a diplomatic enterprise,” Ferdinand says, as their new carriage rumbles back along the road to Enbarr, “I would not say this was our most successful.”

“A murder plot, four injured men, two stolen horses and a ruined party,” Hubert lists beside him. He’s still a little pale, a result of so much magic without a tome, though he had batted away any attempt of Ferdinand’s to care for him and insisted he would be fine once he had some coffee.

“ _ Borrowed _ horses,” Ferdinand corrects his list insistently. “I have instructed the innkeeper to return them to their rightful owners.” 

Hubert’s expression turns grim. “As for the rest, Count Rowe and the von Ochs family will have rather more on their hands than a few injured men and some ‘borrowed’ horses once we are through with them.”

“You truly think Count Rowe was involved?”

“Even if he is not directly involved his sloppy security and management of the situation threatened the life of two Imperial government ministers. He is responsible whether he had knowledge or not. To say nothing of attempting to cut off our escape route. And based on the information I have previously received, I believe we will have yet more unfinished business with House Ochs in due— why are you smiling at me?”

Ferdinand hadn’t even noticed. “Ah. Apologies. I believe I am enjoying another one of your quirks.”

Hubert’s mouth closes, and then opens again, and if there’s a little more colour in his face than usual Ferdinand will never do him the dishonour of revealing it. “So you do not merely tolerate them? Like Jacobine?”

“Certainly not,” Ferdinand says, turning towards Hubert so that his knees bump against Hubert’s own. “Actually, perhaps this whole thing was more of a success than we might think, if we redefine it.”

“In what way?”

“If we cast aside the aim of diplomacy and merely consider it an evening spent between us, to enjoy one another’s company and see one another in their element, then I think it went rather well.”

Hubert boggles at him. “Are you calling last night’s incident... a date?”

“Perhaps. If you’d like for it to have been.”

“I do not think Lady Edelgard will follow the logic of your definition of success,” says Hubert, which isn’t a no.

He has turned towards Ferdinand, as well, leaving them mirrored in posture, a line of warmth and intimacy between their knees. Ferdinand reaches for Hubert’s hand but it is his own which is grasped first, stroked along the knuckles, gripped tight.

“Then let that part stay between us,” Ferdinand says. There have been moments like this before, ones that have stretched between them like caramel and then broken without resolution, leaving Ferdinand regretting his nerves. But Ferdinand has gotten better at reading the cues in Hubert's face after many years of study. So this time, he leans forward, and so does Hubert, and when they meet in the middle it is the briefest touch of lips, followed by another, followed by another.

Out of the carriage window, the sun still hovers on the horizon as it has done for hours, a weak and lazy endless sunrise. The snowfall has paused for now, at least, though it sits heavy on the hillsides and fields. Faerghus is rather beautiful, Ferdinand supposes, when caught at the right moment.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter at @hausofthestars now! I do a lot of fan art and stuff too.
> 
> Thank you so much to my husband for all the support and reassurance and to Tama for letting me ask horse questions and generally bounce ideas off them. I don't know what I'd do without you guys.


End file.
